Young Glory was on thorns all the time. Detection seemed imminent.
"Sit down, senores," he cried. "I will myself search for the wine."
"But it's found," cried one of the officers, gayly. "Why, my good fellow, your friend must be in the liquor business. He's a regular cellar of wine here. Come on, gentlemen; take your choice. Here's claret from France, Rhine wine, brandy, Amontillado from Spain, and whisky and wine from America."
"Nothing American for me!"
"Good sense again, Ruiz. Let us try the Amontillado. It will remind us of our country."
The proposition found favor, and several bottles were opened, and the soldiers helped themselves.
"Your friend's a smuggler," said one of the officers to Young Glory.
The latter shook his head.
"My good fellow, it's a matter of indifference to us what he is. He's a benefactor of his species, anyway. Don't you agree with me, gentlemen?"
They all raised their glasses and shouted boisterously.